8

THE REST OF THE VICTIMS’ families arrived from Beni Mellal at six in the morning the next day and waited at the station’s main entrance, weeping loudly. When Laafrit got there at eight thirty, the mourning had died down somewhat. There was no reason for Laafrit to accompany the family to the morgue, so he had Inspectors Allal and Abdellah go with them and question them. Laafrit asked the father of the shooting victim, Lakbir Bensallam, to stay with him at the station. The old man was clearly blind. When Bensallam’s father protested, Laafrit tried to convince him as best he could.

“You can’t even see, uncle,” said Laafrit. “You won’t be able to help in the identification. It’s enough for your wife to go.”

Laafrit helped him sit down, almost forcing the old man not to go.

Si Lakbir was more than seventy years old. His face was covered with wrinkles and his eyes were hidden behind thick black glasses. He was wearing two djellabas, one on top of the other, and his head was wrapped in an embroidered turban he straightened every now and then, even though it wasn’t out of place.

Laafrit couldn’t get him to open up about his son. The detective was afraid the old man would be too grief stricken. He definitely hadn’t been expecting such a painful blow. The old man was clearly still holding out hope the whole thing would turn out to be a big mistake. His hope was transferred to the detective, so, as a kind of precaution, Laafrit bided his time until the phone rang. He picked up the receiver and it was Inspector Allal calling from the morgue. Laafrit insisted on speaking in French so the old man wouldn’t understand. The inspector confirmed what Abdel-Jalil had said the day before—the bodies were now all positively identified. After hanging up, Laafrit turned to the old man, who was sitting opposite him, and told him that his wife had identified the body of their son.

“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar!” repeated the old man, raising his head and index finger to the office ceiling.

He made a fist and tucked it into his djellaba pocket. He then raised it up and began rubbing his chest as if to help him digest the disaster. Laafrit thought the old man was trying to express his acceptance of God’s will. But the shock was so powerful that the old man took off his glasses to wipe away his tears. Laafrit moved back. The old man’s eyes were shut completely, but teardrops nonetheless slid down as if they were leaking from above his eyelids.

“I haven’t cried in thirty years,” he said with an odd smile. “There is no power and no strength save in God.”

“May God give you patience, uncle,” said Laafrit delicately. “If you want to postpone our talk, I don’t have any objections.”

The old man put his glasses back on and tried in vain to get a grip on his grief. He gritted his teeth and waved his hand as if he was going through memories of his son.

“Why are they killing our children?” he asked in a threatening tone, leaning over the desk. “The godless infidels!”

Laafrit was shocked.

“Who told you they were killed?”

“That’s what the police in Beni Mellal told us. It’s what everyone says. They’re racists there. They kill immigrants like they kill flies. May God curse poverty.”

Laafrit sat up straight.

“Please, uncle, when did your son hrig?”

“Five years ago. I sold the land I owned to help him pay the smugglers.”

“I know he managed to get papers,” said Laafrit, baiting the old man.

“May God be pleased with him,” he said tenderly. “He was a real man, the only one from Beni Mellal who hrigged that managed to get papers.”

“When did he get them?”

“More than two years ago. After he got them, he came home safe and sound. If I knew they were going to kill him, I wouldn’t have let him go back. But it’s God’s will,” he said in resignation.

“When did he go back to Beni Mellal the second time?”

“After he got his papers, he came back to Morocco four times. Last summer he bought a house, got married, and had a wedding party the whole town still talks about. But it’s God’s will, God’s will.”

“Was this the last time he came back?”

“No. He came home last November but he only stayed for a week.”

“Uncle,” said Laafrit, trying to hide his suspicions, “your son was coming back to Morocco a lot. Why?”

“He lived in Almería, my son. Like he told us, this Almería is not very far from our country. He’d leave in the morning and be home with us in Beni Mellal by nighttime.”

“That’s true, uncle,” said Laafrit. “Did he usually drive back to Beni Mellal?”

“He came back by car the first time, when he got married, bought the house, and had a big wedding. God . . . God . . . His joy wasn’t completed. It’s God’s fate.”

“When he came back to Beni Mellal last time in November, was there any specific reason? It seems to me, uncle, that after a summer vacation, he stayed at work for less than two months before coming back.”

“That last time, my son, he stayed with us for one day and then went to the Doukkala region.”

“Why did he go to Doukkala?”

“He didn’t tell us, my son.”

“Where in Doukkala did he go?”

“I swear, my son, we didn’t ask him. He said he was going to Doukkala and he left. When he came back, he stayed with us for another day and then went back to his work in Spain.”

“He didn’t tell you which town he went to?”

“No.”

“Do you have family in the region?”

“No, my son.”

“Does he have friends there?”

“Maybe, but only God knows.”

“Did he go alone? With his wife or someone else?”

“He went alone.”

“Didn’t he tell his wife why he was going to Doukkala?”

“No. He said he had work there and left.”

“Who’d he visit when he came back to Beni Mellal?”

“The family. He loved his family and never forgot any of us. He’d always bring gifts for everyone, kids and adults.”

“And his friends?”

“He never forgot them either.”

“Does he have friends outside Beni Mellal?”

“Only God knows, my son,” the old man said, taking a deep breath. “But why all these questions?”

Laafrit was embarrassed. He felt he had pushed more than he should have, and paused before answering.

“Uncle, there’s something regrettable I have to tell you. When your son washed ashore, he’d been shot four times. The other three drowned.”

The man trembled and his turban slid to the side. He hit it with his hand to put it back into place. His lips moved, but he didn’t utter a word.

“We don’t believe your son was killed by racists,” said Laafrit.

The man hit the edge of the desk and half rose.

“Who killed him?”

“We have the name of a suspect. Issa Karami. Have you heard that name before?”

“No, never,” the old man replied without hesitating. “What’s his connection to my son?”

“For now, only God knows. Issa Karami has an apartment in Martil and we found the gun there, the same one used to kill your son.”

“Have you arrested him?” asked the old man impatiently.

“Soon, God willing, he’ll be in our hands.”

“Who’s this man? How does he know my son?”

“Try to calm down, uncle,” said Laafrit, his mood worsening.

He snuck a lozenge out of his pocket and put it under his tongue.

“What kind of work did your son do in Almería?”

“Farm work. My son’s very good at it.”

“Do you know the name of his employer?”

“Carlos . . . Gomez.”

“Do you know who your son lived with in Almería?”

“The owner gave him a place to stay on his farm. My son really liked him. He was always saying good things about him and he’d bring him gifts.”

“And the others? His friends from the same neighborhood who washed ashore? Did Carlos have a good relationship with them?”

“My son was the one who got them work at Carlos’s farm.”

Laafrit took down Carlos Gomez’s name in his notebook. Now he had an excuse to call his friend in Almería, Luis Fuentes.

The phone rang and Laafrit picked up the receiver. The commissioner asked him to join him in his office immediately.

“Stay calm, uncle. I’ll be back in a bit,” said Laafrit, casting a look at the old man.

The commissioner accosted Laafrit as soon as his feet hit the office floor.

“Sit down, sit down,” he said. “I just had two phone conversations. The first was with Central. They dug up Issa Karami’s info. He really does have Spanish citizenship, even though he was born in El Jebha. Before I called you, I talked to my friend, Hajj Mohamed el-Ibrahimi, chief of El Jebha police. He confirmed Issa is well known in town. Issa has agents working for him there and in the regions where marijuana is grown. He said these agents represent Karami in buying crops and turning them into hash while Karami sits pretty in Europe.”

“And the second piece of news?” asked Laafrit.

“I got it from the border police. Issa Karami left from the Tangier port last Monday using his Moroccan passport.”

“I think we’re dealing with an international hash-smuggling syndicate,” said Laafrit.

He summed up for the commissioner what he had found out from the victim’s father. When he mentioned Carlos Gomez’s name, the commissioner cut him off.

“No doubt the victims were just stooges in a huge operation. This Gomez is hiding behind his agriculture business and he’s using immigrants for his smuggling operations. I think the scenario’s clear now: a boat full of hash took off from our shores with Issa Karami at the helm, while one of Gomez’s boats carrying the victims left from the other side. During the handoff in the middle of the Strait, some kind of misunderstanding happened and that’s what we’re up against now.”

“A syndicate with two bosses,” said Laafrit. “But we have someone who’ll help us get information on the second boss.”

“Luis?” asked the commissioner, surprised.

“I’ll call him tonight. But there’s something else I don’t get. When Mohamed Bensallam came back the last time, he didn’t stay with his family in Beni Mellal. He spent an entire week in Doukkala and didn’t tell anyone why he was going there or what he was doing. I think we’ve got to check this out.”

“I’ll ask the Beni Mellal cops to take care of it,” said the commissioner.

“Let’s wait and see what the rest of the victims’ families have to say,” said Laafrit after a moment’s pause.

“When you’ve finished with the father,” said the commissioner, “send him in to me.”